A Spot of Breaking and Entering
by couldbedangerous-SH
Summary: A short Sherlock based shenanigan, in which Sherlock and John break into London's National Gallery. But is it just to win a bet, or does Sherlock have some other motives? I don't own any of the characters named in this piece.
1. Chapter 1

A Spot of Breaking and Entering

"Sherlock, we shouldn't be doing this." John Watson hissed in an angry whisper.

"You didn't have to come along." The other man's voice floated back through the window to him. John continued to fume, although silently now, until Sherlock's face appeared, like a ghostly apparition, at the window before him.

"Are you coming or not? After all, it's only a spot of breaking and entering."

"Yes, I'm coming," grumbled John grudgingly, deciding not to enquire about what Sherlock had broken. Sherlock's head disappeared, and the army doctor wormed his way through the window.

The room he entered was dark and eerie. Lying on his stomach on the floor, John glanced around, trying to get his bearings. He had been to the National Gallery before, but never in the dark, via a floor level window. Sherlock Holmes was already on his feet a little way off. The faint red glow of the security lights shone like a devil's halo around the consulting detective's head, highlighting his curly brown hair and weasel-like figure.

"Remind me why we are doing this," muttered John as he got to his feet and dusted himself down.

"I'm doing one of the things that I do best," the shadows seemed to mute Sherlock's voice, the way falling snow deadens noise. "I'm proving Anderson wrong."

"What's your problem with him anyway?"

"Just the fact that he's and idiot, even at the side of you and Lestrade." John had known Sherlock long enough now to not be completely offended. In some ways, it had actually been a compliment.

"Is that all?"

"No, he also has really stupid hair."

He lapsed back into silence.

"So, what are you proving him wrong about?" John prompted.

"He bet me that I couldn't steal a painting from the National Gallery and not get caught. Sherlock explained as he set off purposefully.

"So, you're going to commit a criminal offence, just to prove that you can."

"The criminal classes have been incredibly slow recently. I need to keep my mind from going stagnant."

"So you're going to become one of the criminal classes."

"Only on a temporary basis. And Lestrade might be thankful for something to do." A thought crossed John's mind.

"How much did Anderson bet you?"

"Ten pounds." John stopped where he was, mouth open in disbelief.

"We're doing this for ten quid?"

"Yes, I thought it was quite a lot too, for such an easy task." John shook his head.

At that moment, a glimmer of light flickered across the doorway in front of them. Both men froze to the spot as it passed by.

"Night guard?" John whispered when it vanished.

"Oh, I highly doubt it John," Sherlock turned to him, and John could see the teeth flash as he grinned. John sighed.

"This has got nothing to do with Anderson, has it?"

"An excellent deduction. I just happened to hear that someone was planning to steal a painting, so I thought that I'd come and take a look."

"You are unbelievable. How do you 'happen to hear' that someone is going to raid the National Gallery?"

"By listening at the right doors, John. Now, shall we go and stop them?"

Once again, they began to creep forward, more cautiously now.

"I suspect they'll be heading to Room 45."

"Why Room 45?"

"Oh, didn't I say? The painting they're going to steal is van Gogh's Sunflowers."

"No, you didn't say."

"I'm presuming they don't know that the one here is already a fake."

"How do you know that it's a fake? And why haven't you told anyone?"

"It's all in the brush strokes. Very obvious. If they haven't worked it out yet, they don't deserve to know." John let the matter go. There was no point arguing with Sherlock when he was in this mood.

They reached the doors to Room 45 to find them slightly ajar. Chinks of light filtered through the gap as the would-be art thieves moved about.

"Why aren't they bothered about the CCTV? This place must have hundreds of cameras."

"They disabled them before we even entered the building. Not very sophisticated methods. I would have done something much more subtle."

Before John could ask why it hadn't been very subtle in the first place, Sherlock poked his head around the door and peered into the room. He withdrew after a few seconds.

"Well?" John mouthed at him.

"Predictably, they are going to replace the first fake with a second, even worse fake."

"What are we going to do?"

"You are going to stay here, while I go and ring Lestrade." And with that, he retreated into the shadows.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock!" John hissed into the velvet folds of darkness, but it was no good; Sherlock was gone. Infuriated, John silently cursed consulting detectives, art thieves and himself, for being foolish enough to listen to his flat mate in the first place. He was even furious the painting, partly for not being the real one, and partly for being apparently so easy to steal. The irrational nature of these feelings made him even more cross, so he sat down in a huff in a corner.

Even as his back collided with the object behind him, he knew that it wasn't a wall.

"Oh hell." He murmured, as the plinth wobbled. Awkwardly, he twisted, trying to save whatever was sitting on its top. By the pale light that reached his eyes, he could make out the shape of a stereotypical Ming vase, that was about to plummet to its certain doom. Desperately, he grasped the plinth's edges, and managed to steady it. He was about to congratulate himself on the near escape, when he felt the weight distribution change. He could only squint in horror, as the no doubt priceless ornament lost its battle with gravity.

John was on his feet faster than a rat up a drainpipe, and, even as the vase and floor connected with a crash that a symphony orchestra would have been proud of, he was sprinting away from the doors to Room 45.

"What the hell was that?" One of the thieves asked, in a harsh voice.

"Someone was outside the door."

"You really are a genius, aren't you? Go and find out who it was."

"And do what?" There was a pause. "Oh. Yeah." Then, John heard the sound of running footsteps following him, and wished dearly that he had thought to pick up his gun. He didn't notice the tall, skinny figure standing concealed by the shadows. Luckily for Sherlock, John also didn't see the rather amused smile that was on his friend's face, as he watched the army doctor race past, pursued by one of the art thieves.

"What was that Sherlock? Do you know what time it is?" Lestrade sounded half asleep.

"I said get to the National Gallery, there's a raid taking place. And it's half past two in the morning."

"How do you know that there's a raid going on?"

"Because one of the thieves just chased John straight past me."

"Wait, are you saying that you are there, in the Gallery?"

"Yes. Now, don't you think you should get here and start arresting people? That is what you're paid for, isn't it?" He hung up before the inspector could say anything else. Then, pocketing his phone, he strolled straight into Room 45.

Meanwhile, John was racing through the labyrinth of corridors and rooms, all the time pondering how on earth Sherlock had managed to find his way about so easily. He rounded a corner, to find a dead end. Swearing under his breath, he looked around for somewhere to hide, or to set up an ambush. When no such place presented itself, he slipped into the darkest shadows, and hoped that he wouldn't be noticed.

Unaware of his friend's new plight, Sherlock was stood, with arms folded and a bored expression on his face, leaning against the wall, watching the hurried movements of a small man in a ski mask. He had removed the original fake Sunflowers, and was endeavouring to place the new one on the wall in its place.

"Here," Sherlock said, stepping forward "let me." The thief nearly leapt out of his skin, and he spun around to be confronted by an exceedingly tall man in a long dark blue coat. He scrabbled in his under his jacket, and pulled out a gun, which he pointed at Sherlock, who sighed.

"How incredibly dull."

"Get back or I'll shoot."

"No you won't." This confused the thief even further, and he made up for his confusion by shouting. "I swear to God, if you don't get back, I'll shoot you." Sherlock took a step forward. The other man's hands were quivering. "I mean it, one more step and you're dead."

"And how," Sherlock's voice took on a quiet and dangerous edge, "do you plan on shooting me, when you have no bullets?"

The thief's nerve broke, and he darted from the room, dropping the gun. Sherlock watched him leave, before bending down and picking up the gun and removing the full magazine, which he placed in his coat pocket. No need for anyone to know he had been wrong. Then he looked at the two paintings. They really were awful fakes. He considered for a moment, before hanging one back up on the wall. Then, he turned, and left Room 45 in search of John.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, explain to me again, why were you two here in the first place?" Lestrade was leaning against one of the police cars outside the National Gallery. Sherlock, now every inch the school boy who had been caught feeding the school hamster to a snake, stood before him, looking, he thought, suitably remorseful.

"I was doing you lot a favour. If we hadn't turned up, when would you have discovered the theft? Too late, I'd imagine, to do anything about it." Lestrade shook his head.

"You know, Sherlock, despite your feelings to the contrary, this police force is capable of doing some things."

"And you all played your parts wonderfully. However, you would not have been able to if it had not been for John and me." The disguise had slipped, and Sherlock was back to his old self. Lestrade was almost relieved. Sherlock being Sherlock was bad enough, but Sherlock being not Sherlock was well, creepy.

At that moment, John appeared, followed by two uniformed officers who were flanking a scowling man wearing black, baggy clothes and a large bruise over his left eye. John held his hands up as he approached.

"It was nothing to do with me, he fell over a step." Lestrade waved his hand, as if waving away the threat of any lawsuits for the doctor.

"Not very sophisticated these art thieving types, are they?"

"That's what Sherlock said about the way they took out the CCTV cameras." Lestrade frowned.

"But we have CCTV footage of them. And of you two, but that was coincidental." John looked at Sherlock.

"You said they took it out."

"Really, John, you are impossibly gullible. Would you have gone along with me if I had told you the CCTV was running? After all, you do seem to have an odd habit of trying not to break the law."

"Because that's what ordinary people do, Sherlock, we try not to break things."

"Even Ming vases?" Lestrade saw the colour rise in John's cheeks.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's discomfort, "ordinary people do not stop art thieves. They sit around and wait for the police to turn up and do something stupid."

John was about to retaliate, when Lestrade held up his hands.

"Okay, girls, let's all start playing nicely again, shall we?"

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock unwound his scarf and hung it up. John rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. Twenty to four in the morning.

"What time do you call this Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson, wearing a floral dressing gown and fluffy slippers appeared in the doorway. "What have you been up to all this time?"

"Oh you know me, Mrs Hudson. Just a bit of this and that."

"Yes, Sherlock, I do know you. I just expected better from you, John."

John, who was slumped in an armchair, looked up like a kicked puppy.

"Don't give me that look, young man. You should know better than to go sneaking off at this time of night." John moved his mouth, but no words came out. He felt that somewhere along the line, he had missed what was going on.

"Sherlock, go to bed." Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. Mrs Hudson had her hands on her hips and a stern look on her face.

"You're not my mother."

"No, I'm your landlady. Now go to bed, the pair of you." She turned on her heel and went to the stairs. As she left, she called back over her shoulder;

"And if you break anything else tonight, Sherlock, I'm adding it to your rent."

The two men looked at each other. It was an odd world to live in a world when a small landlady had more influence than a detective inspector of Scotland Yard. Sherlock shrugged the backpack of his shoulders. John had never seen it before. He got a closer look at it when Sherlock threw it at him. It made an odd clanking noise. John lifted the flap and peered inside. The bag was full of chipped blue and white china pieces.

"Lestrade asked that we could get it fixed and back to him by nine o' clock." When John looked up again, Sherlock was gone. He ran his hands over his eyes again.

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you."


End file.
